


amethest & flowers on the table

by erce3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 08:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14565171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erce3/pseuds/erce3
Summary: In which Luna has a job at a coffee shop & Cho drinks a lot of caffeine.





	amethest & flowers on the table

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for literal weeks so im sorry it isn't longer but anyway enjoy i love these two theyre cute

You’ve already cried three times today, and it’s likely you’ll cry a couple more. It’s not that you’re usually weepy; sure, a two years ago, you walked around teary-eyed on good days, and mascara-smudged on bad, but that’s passed. You only cry about him on your anniversary, his birthday, and the date of his death, now, which is better, you guess.

 

No one can exactly blame you, either. It’s been two years and you’re still broken up about it – you’re guilty. You know it’s not your fault he died in a car crash, but if you’d been paying more attention to him, or something, maybe he wouldn’t be gone. Maybe, if you hadn’t asked him to meet you on the other side of town, in the rain. Maybe, if you hadn’t told him this was his last chance. Maybe, if you hadn’t been fighting with him–

 

You shake your head and release your hair from its bun. It’s not worth coming up with more ifs – a lump is forming in your throat and tears are threatening to drip down your face, _again_.

 

“What you need,” Marietta always tells you, “is a cup of warm, steaming coffee.”

 

She’s probably right – she usually is, when it comes to you and feeling better. You love Marietta, and god, you’re so thankful for her, and how she’s put up with you and your weepy fits. Everyone else you know makes fun of you for it.

 

So, you get up. You don’t trust yourself in a car, not today, not when he _died_ today, in a car, speeding for you, in the rain–

 

A breath. It’s going to be okay, you tell yourself. Cedric wouldn’t want you to tear yourself up for him.

 

You pull a sweater over your favorite ratty t-shirt and put on a pair of soft jeans. There’s a fairly new coffee shop that just opened up, and it’s within biking distance, so you settle on that. You pull up the happiest playlist you can find on your phone and listen to it as you bike through the city.

 

It’s a sunny day today, which feels off, somehow. In the two years he’s been gone, it only rained on the day he died, so you figure it shouldn’t feel off, but it doesn’t feel _right_ for it not to rain, as if the world isn’t honoring him.

 

You know it’s ridiculous, but you’re exhausted and you _miss_ him.

 

The coffeeshop comes into view and you park your bike onto the bike rack and lock it. When you step through the doorway of the shop, you find it smells pleasantly of vanilla and coffee beans. The line is short (most people are at work; you’ve taken the day off), so you find yourself completely bewildered by the time the barista looks at you expectantly for your order.

 

The shop itself is very neat, in a Pinterest sort of way. The menu is written on a chalkboard in cursive, which you had been scanning, because you don’t order coffee often. There’s a couple plants lined by the windows and in the middle of a few tables, and you’re excited to see there’s outlets, too, and a few people working on their laptops.

 

You could, potentially, work on your assignments here. It’d be nice, you think, to get off campus and out of your dorm room.

 

The barista taps you gently. “Your order,” she says, and her tone suggests she’s repeated it a couple times. It’s not _upset_ , somehow, like she’s generally used to people ignoring her, but a bit resigned, maybe.

 

You jump at her contact and sigh, smoothing your sweater down. “Right, sorry.” You pause and realize, for a second time, you don’t know _what_ to order. “I, um. I’m sorry, I’m going to be that person, but I don’t know what I want and I–”

 

“Oh, don’t worry,” says the barista gently. “Time isn’t real, after all.” She’s got bright blue eyes and you can’t help but be entranced by her – her wavy white - blonde hair is up in a knot on her head, her toadstool earrings are swinging, and it looks like she dusted glitter over her fingertips, seeing how they sparkle, and the counter does, too. Her expression is soft and kind, like she knows something about you you have yet to figure out. Normally, that kind of expression wouldn’t rest well on anyone, but it’s suiting for her. It makes her seem – ethereal, almost.

 

“I’m so sorry,” you say again, and check behind you for a line (there is none, you find), “It’s just – my boyfriend, well, ex, maybe, I don’t know the logistics, exactly – he died today, well, not today, but today but two years ago today.” You’re vaguely aware you’re rambling – to a _stranger_ , nonetheless, but you are a mess, and Marietta has class, and everyone else is _bored_ of you mourning.

 

The barista’s mouth makes a little ‘o’. You glance down, belatedly, perhaps, to read her nametag. LUNA, it says. “Oh,” says Luna. She looks up at the menu. “When I’m sad, I always get the London Fog.”

 

You blink. You haven’t had tea since you were in secondary school – when you have to stay awake, you always go for coffee, and most of your classmates do (and did, back in six form), too. “Oh,” you say. “I’ll have that.”

 

“It’s good for the heart,” says Luna seriously.

 

“Really?” you say, and Luna laughs, a tinkling laugh that makes your insides warm up.

 

“Not the blood-pumping one,” Luna explains, tugging on the string of her apron. “The other heart, everyone mistakenly thinks is in the same place, but it’s not.”

 

“Where is it, then?” you find yourself frowning, just slightly, in confusion.

 

“Nowhere,” says Luna simply. “And everywhere.”

 

“Oh,” you say, not quite understanding.

 

She pauses to think, recognizing your confusion. “You see, I feel excitement in my toes, and sadness in my lungs. I feel joy in my cheeks, and fear in my spine. My heart is in every one of those places, but it isn’t, is it?”

 

“Oh,” you say again, a little less confused. “Okay.”

 

Luna nods. “I’ll call you up when you order is ready.”

 

“Thank you,” you say, and turn around. You don’t realize until halfway to a seat that you haven’t paid.

 

“Wait–” you start.

 

“Oh,” she interrupts, as if knowing what you’re going to say already, like you’ve already said it, “losing money is a good way to cure homesickness, but not heartsickness. I’ll pay.”

 

“Are you homesick?” you ask, and then blush. “I’m sorry, that’s overstepping, we’ve just–”

 

“Hm,” hums Luna and gives you a soft smile. “I think I’m more lonely than homesick.” It’s a sad one; you’ve smiled enough sad smiles to know them easily, like one might know an old friend.

 

You abandon the table with the outlet and slide onto a stool by the counter instead, so you can talk to her. “I know the feeling,” you sigh. Luna plants a steaming mug of tea in front of you and looks at you, head tilted.

 

“He’s still here, you know,” she says, after a pause. You’re in the middle of taking a sip of the London Fog – earl grey tea, condensed milk on top, two sugars – and you nearly choke on it.

 

People have told you he’s watching over you, but never like this – so sure, so abrupt. You splutter and cough out a “what?”

 

“Hm?” she says, like she doesn’t remember what she said.

 

You look up at her. “Why – what makes you think that I – that I believe that?”

 

“That he’s still here?” Luna looks down at you, and a curl escapes from the knot to slide down across her cheek. “I hope you don’t.”

 

_This_ makes you choke, and while you’re coughing up half a lung in surprise, she just stares at you with the same sort of confusion that’s made your tea go all over the counter. “I – what?” you say, taken aback.

 

“Well, believing is one thing,” she says, pulling out a cloth and wiping down the counter before you can protest, “and knowing is another.”

 

Oh.

 

“My mother’s here, too,” she adds. It’s a funny way of saying gone, you think, but maybe to Luna, the dead _aren’t_ gone. Maybe it’s what you’d like to believe (know?), too.

 

You don’t know exactly how to respond, either. “I’m sorry,” you settle on, lamely.

 

She shakes her head.

 

When you finish your tea, you wave goodbye and promise yourself you’ll come back. “Thanks for everything!” you call over your shoulder, and bike back to your dorm, feeling lighter.

 

 

 

It takes a week for the girl to come back.

 

“I never introduced myself,” she starts, instead of ordering. “I’m Cho.”

 

You don’t notice her. “Hi Cho,” you say, busy in thought – you’re painting in your head, you’re _planning_ in your head – “and what’ll that be?”

 

Cho starts and stops. You look over at her, the spell of the world decorated in brushstrokes broken as she looks down and blushes. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, instead of brushed over her shoulders; she’s in a neat blouse; and, most importantly, her eyes are soft and warm and _alive_. A jolt goes down your spine when you look at her.

 

“Oh,” she says.

 

“Oh,” you say. “It’s you again!”

 

The smile that comes to her face is creeping and gentle, like the way you thought clouds were when you were small – tufts of cotton candy floating in the sky.

 

“Of course,” she responds. “So, what should I have today?”

 

You have to think about this. Earlier in the week, you’d planned out what to give her, but she isn’t sad anymore, so your planning has been dumped and you have to guess. It’s earlier this time, so the line behind her is existent and growing more agitated by the second, though you hardly pay it any mind.

 

“Um,” says Cho, looking a little awkward and glancing behind her at the line. “how about you decide for me? It’ll be a surprise!”

 

“Hm, alright,” you say. “Surprises help the eyes, I suppose.”

 

Cho blushes and looks down. “I suppose mine are broken,” she comments remorsefully.

 

You shake her head. “No,” you say in a firm tone, with your heart breaking to think Cho would think any part of her is broken. “They’re just out of practice.”

 

“Out of practice for what?”

 

“Shining.” You ding something on the cashier and hand her a receipt to sign. You hardly recognize the action anymore. It’s almost second nature.

 

When she hands it back, you notice a string of numbers scribbled at the very end. In response, you smile at her, smile big and bright and _happy_ , because so few people actually like you, and this – this is proof, in a way. “You know,” you comment, “I’ve never gotten someone’s number before. It seemed like something that only happens in romance novels.”

 

Cho blushes again. Her smile is starlight, you think. You could wax poetry about the color of her blush, you think. You _like_ her, you think, and you’ve only just met her. “Maybe,” she says lightly, “that’s where I learned it from.”

 

“Maybe,” you say, shocked by your revelation, and smooth out the receipt before tucking it into your pocket. She slides onto a stool by the counter.

 

“Finally,” grumps the person behind you in line. Cho turns to shoot him an apologetic smile and hurries to the last open seat by the counter.

 

The drink you choose for Cho tastes like flowers (rose and jasmine tea, to be exact). It’s creamy and soft and chilled. It’s something that reminds you of her. She sips it thankfully and pulls a surprised face.

 

“This – this is really good,” she says. “Wow, Luna.”

 

Hearing your name sends a shock up your spine. You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and say, “thank you.” You’re drifting towards her and away from the cashier, while the line grows uneasy.

 

“Luna!” shouts your co-worker from the back, Pansy Parkinson. “Flirt with the girl another day and take our customers’ orders.”

 

You must be blushing, because she blushes, too. “Sorry,” you say, and force yourself to face the line. It feels like it takes forever, but when you’re done and there is a lull in activity, Cho’s still there, sipping at her drink and watching you expectantly.

 

You walk over.

 

“So, um,” Cho says, after a pause. “I never got to thank you, either.”

 

She laughs when you pull a deeply confused face. “For last week. You were – really kind.”

 

You smile at her, still a little lost. “You don’t deserve to be sad anymore,” you find yourself saying. “No one deserves that.”

 

She beams. “Thank you, Luna.”

 

Because you’re not sure on the appropriate way of saying “you’re welcome” because Cho _does_ deserve it and saying so isn’t exactly something gracious, just something you should do, you just smile again.

 

“Well,” she says, checking her watch. “I have class, so. Um.”

 

“Bye,” you offer, and wave.

 

She laughs. “Text me.”

 

 

  
When your phone buzzes underneath a stack of binders and textbooks, it takes all you have not to throw yourself at it and pull everything apart to see whether or not Luna’s texted you. You’ve been doing this all day, and it hasn’t been her yet, so you figure you should give up, but you haven’t.

 

When you do find it, you glance at the brightly lit screen.

 

**luna** (8:18 PM): hello, cho. this is luna.

 

You grin. Pause.

 

You realize you don’t know what to write. _hi, this is cho_ sounds stupid, because she knows it’s you, _hey!!!!!_ is too excited, and _what’s up, girl_ just feels wrong.

 

When you realize you haven’t had this problem with texting since you met Cedric, you wince. But, you do exactly the same thing as before – call Marietta and ask for help, because Luna _isn’t_ Cedric and you have to trust that things won’t go wrong this time.

 

She picks up on the second ring.

 

“Hey, girl!” she says, and you smile.

 

“Help,” you respond. “I’m trying to text a girl.”  
  
You came out to Marietta in the second week of freshman year by trying to kiss her while drunk. She doesn’t let you live it down, either. So, you’re expecting something echoing that situation, but instead you a get:

 

“Like, flirt? Cho, babe, I’m so proud of you.”

 

You blink.

 

“I – what?”

 

“Look, you haven’t expressed interest in anyone since he died. This is good for you!” She never says Cedric’s name anymore, like she’s afraid of breaking you.

 

“Um, yeah. Just help me, please?”

 

Her laugh is static-y over the phone, but warm. “Yeah, yeah. What’d she write?”

 

“Um. She wrote, ‘hello, cho. this is luna.’”

 

“Grammar?”

 

“No caps, but there are commas and periods.”

 

Marietta is silent for a few moments. “Write back something cheery.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Um, like “hey” with an exclamation mark but no caps. Maybe a joke.”

 

You reread Luna’s text for the thousandth time. “Why is this so complicated?”

 

She laughs again. “Welcome to the single life, like, officially.”

 

**cho chang** (8:23 PM): hey! glad i didn’t give you the wrong number, haha x

**luna lovegood** (8:23 PM): hm. me, too.

 

 

 

Cho comes back the next day, which is pleasantly surprising. You’d been expecting another week, so you break into a wide grin before you can stop herself. It’s not exactly in your nature to stop yourself, though, so you suppose she doesn’t mind.

 

“Hey, Luna,” says Cho, somewhat awkwardly.

 

“Hi!” you say, suddenly worried you were too – well, _you_. It’s a new feeling, and it’s kind of strange to feel uncomfortable in your own skin, but you realize you want her to like you, so.

 

“I know what I want today!” Her laugh is a little forced, but she adds a bright smile at the end, a genuine one. “My friend recommended it. Can I have a cinnamon hot chocolate?” She glances behind her at the growing line.

 

You look at her seriously, debating whether or not to warn her about the cinnamon hot chocolate.

 

She looks so happy today, and you don’t want to ruin a good thing by being _off_ , that you smooth your features and smile.

 

Cho sits at the counter, like last time, and waits for your shift to end.

 

When it does and you drift over, like last time, Cho cocks her head. “I know what discomfort looks like, you know,” she says, tone soft, like coddling a baby. You don’t even flinch.

 

The thing about Cho – Cho’s _prom queen_ pretty. The girl in those American TV shows everyone loves. You’re eccentric, off, in your own head. You can’t imagine Cho knowing what it’s like to have everyone’s eyes on your back because you’re weird, but you nod anyway.

 

“When – when Cedric died, everyone treated me like glass,” she starts, and you pause. _Oh_. “And Luna? When I started, um, rambling?” Cho laughs a little, maybe in disbelief. “You were just – I don’t know, blunt? You don’t need to be careful, you know. I, um, I like you better when you’re you.”

 

You realize you’re smiling again, full on. “You know,” you say, because you’re not one for thank yous, because thank yous should be given as pieces of advice and acts of kindness, “I read somewhere cinnamon makes you fall in love.”

 

“Hm,” says Cho, but she’s midway through sipping and starting to blush, like she’s trying to be casual. “I didn’t know.”

 

“Well, you know,” you say, “it’s good for future reference.”

 

She laughs, and even though it wasn’t meant to be funny, it doesn’t feel like she’s laughing at you. Maybe, one day, you’ll get the nerve to ask her out.

 

 

 

**cho chang** (1:48 AM): luna?

**luna lovegood** (1:48 AM): you should be asleep, you know.

**cho chang** (1:50 AM): youre right

**cho chang** (1:51 AM): will you go to dinner w me?

**luna lovegood** (1:51 AM): now?

**cho chang** (1:52 AM): actually, yeah

**luna lovegood** (1:53 AM): okay.

 

 

 

“I don’t ask people on dates at two in the morning, usually,” you find yourself clarifying, because you’re in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt from the band that Cedric tried to start in junior year that you’ve never been quite able to throw away. It’s not uncomfortable, though, being practically in pajamas around Luna.

 

She’s looks – well, _Luna_ , wearing something that could be for sleepwear or everyday, but you still don’t feel self-conscious. She smiles. “You don’t really seem like the type to do that, either.”

 

“Marietta told me to.” It feels less like a reason and more like an excuse, but Luna just cocks her head when you say it.

 

“Whatever your reason,” she says, like she knows it isn’t totally true, “I’m glad you did, but I don’t exactly know any places to eat.”

 

“I,” you sigh here, trying to figure out how to word this without sounding – well, lame. “I, um. I couldn’t sleep.”

 

Luna doesn’t press you, just nods, like she was expecting you to clarify. “That’s okay,” she says, in a tone that signifies she knows there’s more but doesn’t mind not knowing what. “Do you have a restaurant in mind?” she repeats instead.

 

“Um, yeah? There’s a 24 hour diner nearby that I go to when I can’t sleep.” You know it sounds lame, but the truth is, you go there a lot. “Do you know it?”

 

She shakes her head. “Eating out alone is bad luck.” You try to decode her expression, eyebrows up, mouth pulled straight so she looks happy and sad at the same time, like she’s forcing herself to be positive. You wonder if you’ll ever really figure Luna out.

 

“God, no wonder I’m failing my calc class,” you say lightheartedly. “Thank God I have you, then.”

 

Luna’s smile is real, this time, bright and blinding. She fiddles with her bleach-blonde hair, and then pauses, an answer dawning on her before she’s even asked you the question. “You eat out alone a lot?”

 

“I, um,” you start, realizing you sound pathetic. “I mean, not a _lot_ a lot, just, um. Sometimes.”

 

Luna hums. “Maybe you should eat some radishes.”

 

“I don’t think they have radishes there,” you find yourself responding. “If that’s okay.”

 

“Radishes help you sleep,” she says, nonchalantly, like she knows you were biting back the question. “Can we walk or would you like to call an uber?”

 

 

 

Cho is another person at two in the morning. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she hasn’t bothered to apply lipstick. Drumming her nails against the table, she says, “Sorry that we’re having a lame first date.”  
  
Something in you is thrilled by the idea you’re having a date in the first place. “No, this is nice. It feels very,” you pause, trying to describe why you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, “real.”

 

She relaxes. “I don’t sleep much,” she explains. “No one’s sure why, but I’m just – off.”

 

“Healing takes time.” You remember being little, and losing your mom. You wonder, briefly, if your father has truly gotten over her.

 

Cho sighs, smiling. “I don’t know how you do it.”

 

Your stomach flutters, sure you’ve missed something. “Hm?”

 

“I don’t know, it’s just that,” she fiddles with her shirt, “I feel so, um, calm? Around you? Like I can tell you anything.”

 

The waitress comes right as you’re about to respond, and it feels too private not to wait for her to leave. “Do you girls know what you want?” the waitress asks, and you look to Cho.

 

Cho starts drumming her nails on the table again. “Uh, yes.”  
  
“Cho, will you order for me?” you ask, sort of suddenly.

 

She blushes. “Sure, it’s about time I pick something out for you.” To the waitress, she adds, “Can we have some pancakes? And bacon?”

 

The waitress nods, and leaves, and you sit there, trying to remember what you were going to say. “Me, too,” you say, eventually, unsure if she’ll understand what you’re talking about.

 

You’re pretty sure she does understand, because she breaks into a smile. “Okay, good, because I really like you, and um, I keep worrying you’re going to get freaked out because I kind of dump a lot of, um, stuff on people that I get close to because–”

 

“Cho,” you say, suddenly. “Cho.”

 

She pauses.

 

“You’re good the way you are.”

 

 

 

**cho chang** (10:18 AM): thanks for going out with me last night!

**luna lovegood** (10:18 AM): you’re welcome. i would like to do it again sometime.

**cho chang** (10:20 AM): okay! yes. definitely.

**luna lovegood** (10:23 AM): until then, visit me at the coffee shop.

**cho chang** (10:23 AM): you read my mind!!

 

 

 

You see Luna at the coffee shop the next day, because you don’t ever remember feeling like _this_ in maybe ever, and God knows you don’t want to lose it. As in, jittery and excited and when you see her, your stomach performs the cartwheels you never mastered when you were twelve.

 

Somehow, the pale lavender socks and birkenstocks don’t clash with her red striped apron. “Hi, Cho,” she says, brightly. “Sleep well?”

 

The way she looks at you, you know she knows you slept well for the first time in months. Instead of confirming anything, you shrug. You’re nervous.

 

Really nervous.

  
Because you haven’t done anything with anyone in two years. Because it’s _Luna_ and she’s some stranger and you know absolutely nothing about her besides the fact her drinks are really, really good. Because you’re going fast and you’re intense and because–

 

Because you really, really don’t want to screw this up.

 

“I’m only here for like, five minutes,” you start off, tone apologetic. “I have class in an hour and I want Marietta to read my paper, so I’m giving her coffee–”

 

Luna frowns, just a small amount, and then nods. “Okay,” she says. “What does she want?”

 

“Um,” you say. “She says she wants you to pick.”

 

Luna’s eyebrow raises a fraction of an inch, and then she nods again. You bounce from toe to toe, suddenly nervous you’ve done something wrong, or that maybe you weren’t good enough last night, or something even worse. Worse what, you don’t know. “If that’s okay,” you add nervously and Luna blinks over at you.

 

“And you?” she says. “What do you want?”

 

You’re not actually sure. To kiss her, maybe, even if that’s not exactly on the menu. You don’t even know if Luna would want to kiss her back. You let that image sink in, of Luna leaning over the cash register to peck you on the cheek and you find yourself saying, “I don’t know? What do you think I need?”

 

Luna pauses. It doesn’t sound like you’re talking about coffee anymore, really, and something crosses over her face that echoes that. She smiles for a moment and says, “A muffin,” and shuffles to the pastry window to grab a flavor. “Blueberry okay?” She doesn’t actually wait for you to respond, just puts it into a bag and hands it to you with a coffee-mixture-thing that _smells_ good, at least.

 

“Uh. Okay,” you say, confused. Maybe Luna’s misread the situation. Maybe Luna’s tired of making up drinks for you. Maybe last night wasn’t as good as you thought is was.

 

“Because you look tired and too much caffeine lets the imps get to you,” clarifies Luna softly, seeing your expression and seemingly reading your mind. “And because you give your beloved blueberries.”

 

“I–” pause. You don’t know what to say. “Oh.” Your heart’s pounding in the good way, in the nervous, can-we-kiss-now way, and you’re struggling to breathe. You try to figure out how to respond in a way Luna can interpret, even though it feels like Luna has you down better than you have yourself down. “Do you want half?” you try.

 

She smiles, wide and sweet and wonderful. “Go study,” she says and your heart bursts into stars. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

 

 

 

So Cho says yes to a during-the-day date, and you realize you don’t know where to take her, so you decide to take her to the shore. It’s raining (as it often does in Scotland) and you bring a radish charm bracelet to give to her and you think about kissing a girl for the first time since six form.

 

She shows up in a cute clear raincoat and wrinkled eyes and you can see her heart baby blue and periwinkle (open and excited and full). “Hi,” she says, the way girls do when they’re trying to flirt and gives you a smile you’re coming to recognize as one for you, which makes your heart go lemon-yellow (infatuated, in love).

 

“I brought you a bracelet to help you sleep,” you say and hold up the radish bracelet. “You don’t have to wear it, though,” you add quickly, worried for a moment, but she just raises a finger and takes the bracelet.

 

She puts it on slowly and silently, and then holds her arm out to admire it. “I love it,” she says and her face is so honest that you can’t breathe.

 

“Cho,” you say and she tugs your ratty hoody and M&S rain poncho and smiles again. “Did you know that salt water is the best kind of water for lovers?”

 

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “I thought that tears were made out of salt water.”

 

You shrug. “Who loves better than the broken-hearted?”

 

She snorts, pulls you in closer. “Is that a compliment, Luna Lovegood?”

 

“No,” you breathe. “Do you want one?”

 

She frowns, shakes her head, and you stop her, look at her with clear eyes and sigh. You’d like to stay like this forever, stay pressed together and to the sound of the ocean behind you and the drizzle of rain between you and you say, “Here’s one anyway. You’ve got the most beautiful nose.”

 

She laughs then, clear and sweet and wrinkles her nose and leans in towards you. “Luna,” she says and chills go up your spine. Her fingers are tracing circles on your arm and you can feel the heat from beneath your hoodie.

 

“Hm?”

 

Her eyes are soft and serious and beneath them is a brilliant emerald green, for new beginnings. There’s something, some heaviness, disappearing behind them as she holds you closer and breathes, “I’d like to kiss you now.”

 

Your own breath hitches. “Okay,” you manage, and meet her halfway.

**Author's Note:**

> if u wanna chat hmu @nooreva on tumblr! talk to me abt hp femslash!


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